


moon drunk monster beautiful and strange

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, First Kiss, Geraskier Week, Geraskier week prompt: protect, Happy Ending, Idk what these ranks are it doesnt matter, Inspired by ep 10 of love death and robots, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Lance Corporal Jaskier, M/M, Pining, Relatively fast burn tbh, Werewolf!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: When Geralt gets transferred to a new new base during the Afghanistan war, he doesn't think it will be any different from the last one. The point of the military is, after all, uniformity and the dehumanisation of the soldiers. However, after he gets assigned a new handler things take a slightly different turn.(Werewolves in the military AU)Translation into Russian availablehere!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609732
Comments: 62
Kudos: 1416





	moon drunk monster beautiful and strange

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now i know i have an unfinished fic to get back to but i had to get this out of my system for Geraskier week day 3 prompt; protect tho tbh it works for the first three days as well bc geralt and jaskier are always Soulmates in my eyes.  
> Anyway,, this was inspired by Love Death & Robots episode 10: shape-shifters  
> It was such a good ep and i love a good werewolf au so i had to give it a try! Hope yall enjoy i wrote this in a couple of hours over the span of two days so sadly no smut this time around  
> 

It was another dusty settlement in another dusty desert in Afghanistan. Another war that wasn’t his but another war he was sent to fight for them. The men in the base encampment eye him warily as he’s ushered through the large gates. They know he’s not going to do anything to them in fear of his superiors’ retribution but they’re all also aware of how dangerous he really is – they don’t trust him. It’s always the same story.

“Here you are, big boy, your own tent and your own bunk. Just like Colonel Vengerberg requested.” The Corporal in charge of getting him settled into the new unit waves his hands around with flourish like he’s presenting him with a luxury hotel room instead of a shoddy tarp tent and a dustyass, barely-above-the-ground canvas bed.

He grunt, nodding in acknowledgement and letting his duffle drop next to the bunk. He rolls his shoulders, tense from sitting in the cramped helicopter seats for hours. The bunk creaks underneath his weight menacingly as he sits down onto it and he sighs, wondering if it will give out during the night. The corporal is soon replaced by a man whose footsteps are heavier against the sandy ground.

“Private Rivia.” A stern voice from the opening of the tent calls and he perks up, scenting the air to make out if there is any immediate danger to attend to. The air around them smells like dirt, oil and gunpowder but nobody is rushing towards the encampment’s gates.

He steps out of the tent and finds himself looming over the company’s Captain. He salutes the man and stands at attention as the shorter man eyes him critically.

“Seeing as I am the Captain of this company of sorry men, you’re technically my responsibility. Not that I don’t trust you to take care of yourself.” The man hums, “But for appearance’s sake, I am required to supervise. We’ll see how the first mission goes and if the men complain too much, a Lance Corporal will be assigned to you as a _handler.”_

_“_ Sir.” He nods, a sense of dread settling into the bottom of his stomach at the thought of going out there with these men that despise him so. One would think that he’d be used to it by now but troupe to troupe, company to company, it’s always the same thing, the same nerves settling over him. People don’t like non-humans in their vicinity, that’s just how they are, it’s second nature for them to hate that which is different. And yet he’s still not used to the leering and the sneering of those who are supposed to be his brothers in arms.

“At ease, soldier. Tomorrow at 0700 a.m. sharp. You’re leading the reconnaissance group into the desert. There was a report, hostiles spotted in the area.” The Captain nods at him before turning back towards the mess hall and leaving him to his thoughts.

Another battlefield, another mission, another day, all of them blending together. He retreats into the tent, away from the prying eyes and whispered insults, sleeping off the nerves he feels.

* * *

He doesn’t wear shoes because he doesn’t need them. Some of the soldiers find it strange but the shoes slow him down when it comes to running and without them he can feel the movement of everything around him much better. So the shoes stay off, but they still force a bulletproof vest over his military-issued shirt onto him and he accepts it because it’s easier than arguing that he doesn’t need one. Having him in front of the convoy without anything against bullets on makes people nervous, reminds them of who exactly he is, makes everyone uneasy. Plus, he has to admit it helps with carrying the radio.

He ties his hair back and wipes his sweaty palms over his fatigues, fist missions were always make it or break it for him. The superiors use the first field report to see if they’ll keep him around or if they’ll find another company to pass him off to because the people in the current one weren’t able to _accommodate_ his kind.

_“Hey, Geralt.”_ A voice chirps over the radio transmitter tucked into the pocket on the vest’s shoulder. The line used is a secured channel that only three people have access to at the moment. And this certainly doesn’t sound like the Captain nor Colonel Vengerberg, so it must be the infamous Lance Corporal that will be assigned to him if this mission makes the other soldiers doubt his skills or his presence in general.

“Lance Corporal.” He growls back, fists clenching at his sides at the other’s cheery tone that seems so out of place for a warzone.

“ _Oh, please, call me Jaskier.”_ The man responds easily. “ _How are you liking the view so far?”_

“The starving and scared people of Afghanistan really _are_ a sight to behold.” He grinds out sarcastically and earns himself a groan and a sardonic chuckle in turn.

“ _That’s – yeah, alright.”_ The radio cuts out briefly before it comes back on. “ _Just a fair warning, some of the men back here are talking shit about you and if I start throwing hands, I’m counting on you to have my back.”_

The line goes dead completely and Geralt almost freezes at the words. Who the fuck is this guy? Who is the idiot that would willingly knock someone out in defence of _him? An absolute moron_ , his mind supplies, _someone who doesn’t know you well yet._ His mind reels but they have a mission so he shakes it off and focuses on what’s important.

They continue walking at a moderate pace. The people around them, alongside the road, all reek of fear and Geralt once again wonders what is it exactly that they’re fighting for.

Despite his bare feet, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish the vibrations of the convoy he’s with, the natives and the enemies. But nothing can be mistaken for the sound of a rifle being reloaded in the distance. He holds up a hand and everyone stops. Tilting his head up, into the wind, he senses the gunpowder and the sour stench of nervous sweat.

He steps slightly to the side and in front of the man behind him as the first shot rings out from up ahead. The bullet sinks into his bicep like a hot knife into butter and he hisses, twitching back from the impact.

“Ten o’clock, three shooters, two o’clock, two shooters.” He calls out and the word spreads as the gunfire starts raining down on them from up ahead. He cuts through it as the soldiers disperse and start returning fire. He rushes up into the house on the left, smashing through the feeble mud wall and into one of the shooters. The man yells as he grabs him by the throat and throws him out the hole he’d made on entry. The next one closest to him twists the rifle his way and Geralt grabs the barrel, moving it to the side as shots ring out next to his ear. He growls, tugging the weapon out of the enemy’s grip and tossing it aside. He plants a fist into the man’s gut as the third shooter gets knocked down by someone from the convoy by a shot to the head.

Suddenly, it’s quiet outside. Despite that, his ears are still ringing from the heavy gunfire, the sensitive hearing momentarily impaired as he tries to recover. This part never gets better either. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“ _Jaskier to Rivia, Private Rivia, come in.”_ The Lance Corporal’s voice bursts through the ringing in his ears and he clings to it like a man drowning, using the lilting tone to pull his senses into focus.

“The three shooters at ten are down. Area secured.” He calls back and steels himself for the walk back out.

“ _Copy that, Private. Feel free to join us whenever you deem our_ company _worthy.”_ Jaskier informs him and despite himself, Geralt snorts in amusement.

* * *

He hears the hurried footsteps thumping against the ground rhythmically before the man drops into the seat across from him. He lifts his head reluctantly and meets a pair of almost-unnaturally blue eyes and a crooked smile head-on. He blinks, almost dazed by the gorgeous bastard in front of him and is _definitely_ taken aback by the fact that the guy smells like lindens and daisies – here, in the middle of an encampment filled with sweaty and grimy men and women.

“Good work out there today.”

And oh, it’s _the voice_. It’s _Jaskier_.

“Lance Corporal,” He grunts, quickly returning to shovelling food into his mouth and trying to ignore how his whole body wants to wiggle in his seat under the man’s praise like he’s an overexcited _dog_.

“Told you to call me Jaskier.” The man tutts and drums his fingers against the plastic table distractedly, drawing Geralt’s gaze to the nimble digits.

“That feels a little unprofessional,” He remarks, refusing to acknowledge how everyone is staring at them as if they’re the main circus attraction. It’s not like he’s not used to it. It’s fine, it’s a feeling that he knows how to deal with – _Jaskier_ , on the other hand, might not be all that accustomed to it.

“Well, we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together from now on so-” The other shrugs easily, seemingly unconcerned that he’s talking to the Marines’ very own _Weapon X_.

“So they’ve decided that I need a handler, then.” He sighs, his shoulders slumping. This had happened last time as well and some poor bastard had gotten saddled with the impossible task of watching over Geralt almost 24/7. He was hoping for a bit of freedom this time around but no such luck or so it seems. It depends, really, if he manages to chase this _Jaskier_ man away or not. Maybe the negativity thrown their way will be enough to-

“Fuck yes they did!” Someone calls from the table behind him, standing up to cast a shadow over Geralt’s tray. “It was about time they put a leash on you, dog. Who knows what kind of fucked up shit you could do on your own.”

He watches, almost as if in slow-motion, as Jaskier hurriedly picks up one of the cleaned hardboiled eggs on his plates and launches it expertly at the shittalking soldier behind him. The egg hits with a resounding _smack_.

“What the fuck?!” The soldier, wiping the burst egg from the left half of his face, cries out in distress.

“Oops, those things sure are slippery!” Jaskier wipes his hand off against his tee, an unbearably _smug_ grin breaking through the innocent pout on his mouth.

“You little bitch!” The offended soldier growls, obviously intending to walk around the table and probably smash Jaskier’s face in.

Geralt stands up and turns around, finds himself looming over the man. The soldier falters in his steps, looking up at him with wide eyes and reeking of fear and a fair bit of piss.

“He said it slipped. It was an accident. Do we have a problem here?” He puts a little more growl into his voice than necessary and the man gulps, shaking his head vehemently.

“No, no problem.” The soldier throws Jaskier one last glare before bouncing off of Geralt’s shoulder when he’s made a misguided attempt at shoulder-checking him. A couple of the other soldiers snicker mockingly at the display and he catches the eye of the company Captain across the mess hall tent. The man nods at him and Geralt feels almost validated. 

“Whew, that was-”

He doesn’t wait around to hear what Jaskier has to say. Instead, he shoves the remaining egg into his mouth and vacates the mess hall as fast as he can. He hears the sound of Jaskier rushing after him and he groans inwardly.

“Don’t,” He growls softly, tugging away from where Jaskier’s hand almost makes contact with his arm. The bullet is still lodged inside, and he’s going to have to re-open the wound to take it out, so the area is very tender. Plus, he’d rather not have the other touching him at all.

“Shit, sorry.” Jaskier takes his hand back, peering at the inflamed skin instead. “Shit, you need to get to medical!”

“No, they – they have real wounds to look after.” He hates that it sounds like a confession so he frowns down at himself and his sudden bout of honesty. He turns back around and ducks into his tent. He pulls out his very own personal first aid kit in preparation of the small operation he’ll have to perform.

“Geralt, that’s hardly – that _is_ a real wound. Just because it heals quickly, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” Jaskier, hands on his hips, looks down at him with a frown.

He snorts, taking out the army knife and some gauze so that he doesn’t bleed all over the place. The tweezers and the alcohol get placed on the bed as he rolls up the short sleeve of his tee. It’s a familiar process but the shot was to an awkward area so it will be tricky taking care of it.

“Jesus.” Jaskier mumbles and Geralt half-hopes that the sight of him digging into his own flesh will be enough to drive him off. But, the Corporal stays put, eyes tracking his hands intently as Geralt cuts into the skin like it’s nothing. He quickly realizes that the tweezers won’t be of any use to him since he can’t keep the wound open and at the same time use them with the same hand so he just – presses his fingers into the wet mess. He hisses at the pain, it ripples down his spine in nauseating waves.

“Fuck, shit. Stop that. Let me.” Jaskier’s suddenly right _there,_ under his nose and smelling like heaven, grabbing the gauze and the tweezers with dextrous fingers. The man nudges his hand out of the way, wiping the blood pouring down his arm with the gauze in one hand while the other wields the tweezers expertly. The Corporal gets the bullet out with ease, dropping it into the cotton and then pouring some of the alcohol over the open wound. He hisses at the intense sting of it and releases the flesh, letting it knit itself back together again.

He breathes out through his nose steadily. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“A simple ‘ _thank you_ ’ would suffice.” Jaskier pats him on the chest and then winces at the bloody handprint he leaves there. “Right, sorry.”

“You shouldn’t speak out for me. It’s only gonna get you in trouble.” He adds, tugging his shirt off and using it to clean the knife and the tweezers now that it’s already bloodied up.

“Yes, well. Not like they can fight me, yeah?” Jaskier snort. “Besides, I don’t like that they treat you like you’re...” The man waves a hand around vaguely and Geralt snorts derisively.

“A monster?”

“- _Lesser._ ” Jaskier finishes, “You saved their asses out there today and they should be _thankful_.”

“They rarely are.” He stands, bumping Jaskier with his chest accidentally and then gripping the other’s arms to steady him.

“Whoa there, lad.” Jaskier chuckles, a chirping sound that’s almost giddy with mirth.

He frowns down at the slightly shorter man and releases him. “Go away.”

“Aw, fine. I’ll let you have your rest. _Nighty night_ , Geralt!” Jaskier hops off out of his tent, still looking entirely too happy for the situation at hand.

“What the fuck.” He grunts to himself, wondering if the Lance Corporal will become a reoccurring presence in his life or if he will fall back and blend into the monotony of it all like every other person he’s met.

* * *

Jaskier does not, in fact, blend into the background with the rest.

Jaskier, or rather _Julian_ as Geralt had found, makes himself stand out in everything he does.

The man is an exceptional shot, great at being sneaky, excels in hand-to-hand combat, has a beautiful voice and plays the guitar for them when they’re all feeing cheery enough. He’s a bright spot amongst the sepia of these damned oil-filled lands and Geralt can’t help but track him with keen eyes wherever he goes like a starved dog tracking food from afar. Well, that’s a bad analogy considering – everything. 

Jaskier earns himself the nickname _dogboy_ with the way he follows Geralt around – like it isn’t his job to keep an eye on him – but it doesn’t seem to deter the man at all. So Geralt gets stuck with Julian as his shadow, his only companion during these long days in the desert, as the only ray of actual light in his life despite the sun perpetually beating down on him.

“Hey, do you think you could like throw me into the air? And how far?” Jaskier asks, an innocent grin on his face.

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” He grunts, not even pausing with the push-ups.

Jaskier makes the executive decision to seat himself onto his back and Geralt grunts at the added weight. It’s not much but it’s not nothing either. He mourns the loss of his personal space but secretly relishes in the way that his clothes are going to reek of Jaskier for days now.

“Look at you go!” Jaskier claps his hands above him, lifting his legs off the ground and sitting _crisscross applesauce_ on top of his upper back.

“Stop wiggling,” He growls, eyes screwed shut as Jaskier’s bony ass digs into his back muscles.

“You’re not exactly stable, _Mr. Mountain._ ” Julian huffs, hands gripping Geralt’s shoulders for support, fingers digging into the muscle there.

He groans inwardly, _he’d kill for a massage._ “Why do you enjoy tormenting me?”

“I’m trying to annoy you into taking a nap.” Jaskier admits with a chuckle.

“For the last time,” He drops down and rises again. “I’m _not_ tired. I don’t _need_ to sleep much so I’d rather be doing something productive with my time.”

“This is hardly productive. Do you even _need_ to work out or is it just posturing? Maybe for the ego?” The man pokes around the back of his head, playing with his hair and untying it from the messy bun. He growls as Jaskier begins to braid his hair neatly but he can’t exactly reach back and stop him.

“Jaskier.” He warns but the man doesn’t stop. Jaskier’s never threatened by him, never afraid. He doesn’t flinch when Geralt growls nor does he shy away when Geralt gets a little too into his personal space in an attempt to intimidate. It’s admirable, really. It’s also stupid as fuck and Geralt doesn’t want anything to do with it. Except, that’s not true either.

“Oh, I know you like to look nice for me, big guy, but I assure you I’d like you no matter-” Jaskier goes quiet halfway through the rant and Geralt pauses with his push ups.

“ _Yeah, the fucking demon just tore them apart. I swear, if ever there was a hell then he’s straight from there! Jesus, I ‘ain’t a religious man but I prayed to God the moment I saw his eyes fucking reflecting in those Humvee lights!”_

Jaskier is up on his feet before Geralt can stop him. 

Julian Pankratz is a pain in Geralt’s ass but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

After three months of being next to the man in close proximity, he’d gotten used to his chatter and his near-constant ramblings that are mostly spun tales and entries to his not-actually-written memoires. He’s come to rely on them, even, when everything around him gets loud and the scent of gunpowder and the cracked dirt becomes too much – when it becomes oppressive, he focuses on the way Jaskier smells, sounds and looks to ground himself.

He’s also endlessly endeared by the man standing up for him each and every time someone decides to start talking shit. The other man throws himself into a needless argument after needles argument like a headless chicken. He sometimes forgets, that even if _he’s_ used to it Jaskier, apparently, won’t stand for such treatment of the man that’s saved them all on more than one occasion. He’s always careful, keeping an eye on the feisty Corporal so that the man doesn’t escalate the situation. Mostly so that Jaskier keeps to metaphorical fists rather than actual ones. Jaskier is a skilled fighter, sure, but with the amount of men he’s antagonized in their company, it would be a surprise if he managed to get out of that brawl alive.

He stands up, watching as Jaskier gets in someone’s face about what he’d just heard the man say. It’s not the worst thing he’d been called, by far, but Jaskier must be tired from a long night in the field and he was, apparently, done with the other soldiers talking shit about Geralt behind his back.

“Take that back, right now.” Jaskier hisses at the other solider like the feral little bastard that he is. “Take it back because that man right there took on an entire squad, seven bullets and a rocket launcher for your sorry asses last night. You bunch of ungrateful ingrates, you call yourselves honest men of freedom but you would throw him out to the enemy the first chance you get. He is just as much of a soldier in this fucking army as any of you lousy fuckers.” The man’s voice rises as he speaks; almost shouting by the time he’s done.

Geralt’s never seen him this riled up before. He’s never seen him this venomous, spitting and hissing and going for the other soldier’s throat over such a simple insult. The beast inside Geralt purrs, something primal and deep rumbling through his chest. His hands twitch, his muscles tightening like he’s ready to spring out into a shift and take Jaskier down to bite him and –

“ _Julian_.” He grunts, approaching the two. “Come on, it’s not worth it.”

“Ironic that the attack dog has an attack dog of his own.” The solider that was being shouted at puts his foot in his mouth and Geralt manages to catch Jaskier around the waist just before the man springs at the other.

“That’s enough.” He growls, throwing the Corporal over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “You’re going into time-out.”

“Unhand me, you brute!” Jaskier smacks a fist against his back petulantly but Geralt ignores him.

“You need to calm down. You can’t just start a fight with anyone that looks at me wrong.” He drops the man down onto his own bunk in his small tent. “You’ll get kicked out of the Marines if you try and do that.”

“But they were – they’re _always,”_ Jaskier groans in frustration, hands gripping his knees firmly.

“Yes, they are. And they will continue to do so until I eventually leave or outlive most of them.” He crouches down in front of Jaskier, trying to meet the other’s eyes.

“Aren’t you sick of it? Aren’t you tired of being _nice_?” Jaskier reaches out, gently tucking a fallen strand of his pale hair behind his ear. “Why are you fighting their war, you don’t need any of this. They don’t deserve you.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, fighting the urge to lean his head into the other’s palm. “It’s all I have, Jaskier. I’ve been in and out of the military for years now.”

“How old are you, Geralt?” Jaskier hushes, running a finger along one of the scars marring his face, one of the rare ones that he’s still got on him. A scar from _before._

“My first war was the World War II. I got drafted at eighteen, in 1944. I was in France for a year before I almost died. That’s where the man that bit me found me. Lying between the fucking trees with my chest blown open and my skull cracked.” He says slowly, closing his eyes as he remembers the unpleasant sensation of warm blood pooling against his cheek. Jaskier’s heart rate spikes at his words, the gentle hand now gripping his jaw firmly as if he’s trying to bring Geralt out of the memory by sheer force of will.

“The man took pity on me, made me promise to fight with them when the time came to utilize my powers in exchange for my life. And I didn’t really – I never believed in the German superiority or whatever the fuck they tried to drill into us at an early age so I said yes. I would have said yes to anything just to make the pain stop.” His throat clicks, dry and raw from speaking so much after holding back the truth for so long. Aching from the admission that he’d fought for the _other side._

“Me and a couple of others plus the man – we took back the land piece by piece until the Germans retreated out of that part of France for good. Then he’d set me free and I’d somehow made my way back to the unit that I was with originally.” He opens his eyes finally, meeting Jaskier’s pools of blue dead-on. “I tried going on as anyone would after the war, moved to America for a fresh start... but, eventually the cities became too much, too loud and polluted. And then another war came, and another and _another_ and I just kept enlisting. It didn’t take them long to realize what I was. Not dying a couple of times when I should have, clued them in pretty fast.”

“So what? They just kept taking advantage of you?” Jaskier grumbles, brows furrowing.

“I get paid. I don’t know if they’ll ever let me retire but there’s always the possibility of a honourable discharge if I take my arm off while in the field or something.” He shrugs easily, he’s thought about this before. He’s had ample opportunity to think about it between shipping out and coming back to his sparsely-furnished flat in D.C.

“Jesus, Geralt, that’s fucked.” Jaskier gasps, fingers spasming against his face briefly.

“It’s what I know; it’s what I’ve known for so long.” He tugs back out of the other’s hold even though he wants to do the opposite and bury his face into the man’s neck so that he can finally breathe properly for the first time in what feels like _years_. “I know you want things to be different but they won’t. All you’ll accomplish is getting yourself kicked out and that’ll leave me without a handler.” He smiles, brief but enough to catch the Corporal by surprise.

“Geralt.” Jaskier whines and he shakes his head.

“No. Come on. Do this. For me. Be good.” He turns on the puppy eyes and Jaskier’s frame deflates.

“That’s not fair. You think just because you say that that I’ll...” The Corporal sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I won’t get myself kicked out but I can’t promise that I won’t insult them back.”

“It’s all I ask.” He pats the other’s knee and stand up. “Come on, go get cleaned up. I know you hate the mud.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Jaskier groans, dropping onto his back, still in Geralt’s bed. “You should get rid of the blood, too. Makes you look like a slasher flick survivor.”

“I thought it added charm to the _big bad wolf_ rumour.” He grins and Jaskier snorts.

“Please, you’re but an overgrown puppy.” Jaskier sits back up again, preparing to stand and Geralt flicks him on the forehead.

“Puppies can still bite.” He grins, letting his sharp teeth show and ignoring Jaskier’s startled intake of breath. “Go on, get. I’ll see you at dinner.”

The Corporal turns back at him from the entrance to the tent, looking a little constipated. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never thought you were a monster.”

“I know, Jaskier.” He smiles at the other, honest and genuine and Jaskier nods, finally leaving him alone to stew in his own thoughts. And feelings. Because there are _definitely_ feelings involved.

He hates that his heart’s beating so heavily now. That his pulse is jumping and that his senses are focused on Jaskier to the point that he can hear the man’s footsteps making it over to the barracks and to his bunk. He shouldn’t be able to differentiate the other’s gait from those of the rest of the soldiers but he _can_.

He thinks that he would be able to pick out Jaskier from a crowd of a million occupying a tightly packed space. Thinks he would be able to pick up his scent trail from miles away. And it’s concerning. It’s worryingly sappy and disgustingly romantic but it makes the beast inside him curl up contently at the knowledge that he’d always be aware of where exactly Jaskier is.

He drops down into another set of push-ups, still buzzing with the excess energy that he hadn’t managed to work off earlier.

Damn Jaskier and his gentle eyes, gentle hands, gentle words.

* * *

He’s lifting makeshift weights – three truck tires on each side of a metal rod – with Jaskier talking his ear off about something or other. He’s not really paying attention but he’s certain that the other is re-telling him the plot of his favourite book – something about dragons and wolves and who knows what else. It’s just nice to hear him talk, the tone of his voice is always so soothing.

“Private, Lance Corporal.” Captain Ermion Mousesack calls and they spring up and to attention.

“Sir.” They echo respectfully because that’s what they’re used to.

“At ease, soldiers.” The Captain chuckles. “We’re sending two squadrons ahead to scout the area for a new, additional campsite tonight. The base is getting permission to move the line down further into enemy territory.”

“You want us to be there with the squadrons, Sir?” Jaskier tilts his head, relaxing his stance a little.

The Captain nods. “Yes, you’ll be taking point with the recon. I trust your and Geralt’s judgement. See how far we can get inland before we’re too exposed or at risk of attack.”

“Yes, Sir.” They nod in unison and he inwardly winces at the thought of more people pouring into the base encampment. That’s the only reason why they would need to set up a secondary campsite.

“We’re leaving at 0800 hours tonight.” The Captain nods and leaves them to their own devices again.

He groans, dropping down onto the makeshift bench again and rubbing a hand over his face. “Feels like things will go to shit tonight.”

“This another one of your wolf-y premonitions, or?” Jaskier pokes him in the shoulder and Geralt grunts.

“For the last time, I’m not _clairvoyant._ ” He grinds out, cheeks heating as Jaskier snickers melodically.

“Yes, yes. _But,_ 9 out of the ten times you’ve said that, you’ve been right. So, what gives?” The other hums and sits in front of him onto the bench, facing him fully and – well, just generally sitting entirely _too close_ to him.

“I can’t explain it.” He sighs, looking past Jaskier’s shoulder to avoid his inquisitive eyes. “It’s just – the air gets all stuffy and fucking – I don’t know. My hackles rise and my stomach feel like I’ve swallowed led.” It’s not like anyone taught him anything about being a werewolf. The man that turned him knew but a few words of German and he’d barely spoken either way.

“Someone should make a class called _Being a Werewolf 101._ ” Jaskier hmpfs, “Not knowing things is dangerous. Especially if you’re something not entirely human.”

“Or not at all human.” Geralt corrects him but Jaskier just laughs.

“More human than some of the fuckers out here in the military, I assure you.” Jaskier taps the underside of his chin with a forefinger, effectively drawing his gaze onto himself.

“It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna do well like we’ve done so far and it’s gonna be okay. Yeah?” The human smiles at him disarmingly, batting his eyelashes and drawing attention to his pretty eyes like he’s not aware of what he does to Geralt. And knowing how oblivious Jaskier can be, he’s probably not aware. 

“You’re gonna eat those words, _dogboy_.” He grunts, too mesmerized to look away as Jaskier shimmies his shoulders giddily.

“Aw, don’t worry about me, Geralt. I can take care of myself. And if not, I’ve got my White Wolf as backup.” The Corporal winks saucily and Geralt’s heart drops into his gut.

“Julian.” He frowns. “I’m serious. You need to be careful tonight.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “I’ll be fine, you dumbass, it’s just a recon mission. We’ve chased away all the bogeys from the surrounding area already.”

“ _Julian_.” He warns again, low and rumbling and Jaskier’s eyes grow large – pupils dilating at the threat.

“Geralt.” The man returns, voice low and breathy.

He gives in like a lost pup looking for shelter in the nearest warm hovel and choosing a bear cave. He curls forward, hands gripping the other’s waist as he tugs him closer, and burrows his face into the crook of the man’s neck. “Please, be careful.” He mumbles against the soft skin of Jaskier’s vulnerable throat and the man shudders against him as he inhales deeply.

“I promise. I’ll be careful. For you.” Jaskier hushes, running one hand along his back and the other through his loose hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Geralt prays, for the first time in years, that the other is right.

* * *

They set out at 0800 sharp like requested. He’s in the front with Jaskier somewhere in the middle of the Convoy, between the two Humvees. He has his own small team of men to supervise alongside whatever they’ve tasked him with in regards to Geralt.

They quickly move past all of the areas they’ve already secured and enter the empty space of flat land that leaves them exposed like sitting ducks. There’s no cover other than the two Humvees for approximately seven miles as far as he can gauge. In the distance there is a medium-sized rocky formation that would make for a good camp location. This far out, he can’t say if there are any bogeys in the rock formation waiting for them but he’ll definitely be able to tell once they get closet. He doesn’t think there are snipers. There’s no point to snipers where there’s no cover for them and where the land is so flat that you can see every irregularity on it in the distance with the naked eye let alone binoculars.

_“Uh, Geralt.”_ Jaskier’s voice hushes over the radio, startling him briefly.

“Hm?” He tries to make out the shuffling of the Corporal’s boots over the sound of everyone else’s.

“ _I don’t know if you’ve noticed but,”_ A brief pause. _“There’s a full moon tonight.”_

He looks up at the sky and finds clouds obscuring the satellite. The wind’s picked up so the clouds are sure to be blown away in an hour or so. And – sure enough, what he can see peeking out between the fluffy clouds is a full moon. Large and pale like an empty porcelain plate. He wishes he had dinner before they left, hopes that his stomach won’t start rumbling halfway through the night. 

“Why, Jaskier? Should I be worried? Are you not telling me something?” He teases, knowing what the other was after but enjoying the sound of him faltering in his steps.

“ _Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”_ Jaskier sounds indignant and Geralt can only imagine his face.

“Full moons don’t mean shit, Jaskier. This is hardly the first one you’ve seen me under.” He chuckles lowly. It’s partially true. The fool moon means two things. One, that Geralt is faster, _stronger_ and more resilient and two, that Geralt can give his _gift_ to someone else under the moon’s light. But, seeing as neither of those are particularly relevant to their situation, he decides not to burden Jaskier with them.

“ _So what you’re saying is that the TV’s a load of hooey?”_ Jaskier gasps, pretending to be scandalized and Geralt snorts audibly this time.

“I know, shocking.” He hum and cuts the line. The men directly behind them have started grumbling to themselves so he indulges and gives them the quiet they want.

They walk the miles to the rock formation in relative peace. He stops a few times to chase off the jackals lest they get shot by trigger-happy soldiers but other than that, they journey is rather pleasant.

It isn’t until they’ve reached the rocky formation that he notices something off about the stench in the air. The oppressive exhaust from the Humvees had been covering the subtle shift of scent coming from further up ahead in the rocky hill but with the trucks off he can now smell ot clearly.

He holds up a hand, shedding the bulletproof vest, and turns to the officer nearest to him – Sergeant Merigold.

“Stay here. No matter what you hear. Stay put and make your camp for the night here by the hillside.” He warns her and she looks back at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Private Rivia, are you certain?” She asks, already reaching for the radio to broadcast his message.

“I am. There’s two wolves beyond these rocks waiting for us. I need you to block off the passage as soon as I’m through and do not _under any circumstance_ let Lance Corproal Pankratz follow after me.” He growls the last part out, his bones already singing at the prospect of the fight. “I don’t care what you do, blow up the passage, lay it with landmines but it needs to remain closed. And if there’s anything other than me on top of the rocks in an hour’s time, shoot it and don’t stop until you’re sure it’s dead.”

“Sir,” She nods, a bead of sweat making it down the side of her face. She turns on the radio and begins her transmission.

He rolls his shoulders and starts off in a jog that quickly turns into a spring. He’s vaguely aware of a scuffle between the ranks but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he enters the pass between the two rocky formations. His teeth lengthen in his mouth, ears twitching and his entire face tingling with the need to change, _to shift._

He emerges from the other side, standing tall and defending the pass like he’s the keeper of the gates of heaven. He might as well be, considering _his_ heaven is on the other side of that pass probably fighting everyone tooth and nail to make his way back to Geralt’s side.

There are two men standing in front of him. One old and one young, both bare-chested and breathing heavily. The old man is an Alpha by the stench of it and the young one his Beta, both of them obviously set on killing Geralt if the rage in their amber eyes is anything to go by.

Killing his own kind – it never feels good. He’s only had to do it once before and that was a long time ago. The dying wail of a werewolf is said to haunt the place where it died long after it’s gone. He knows that they won’t be able to set the secondary camp there after tonight, no matter if Geralt lives or not.

He hopes he lives, though. And if not, then he at least hopes he goes out protecting Jaskier. Because he’s not doing this for the military, he’s realized. He’s doing this for Jaskier – has been for the past two months or so. The man had burrowed his way under Geralt’s skin so thoroughly that he doesn’t think he could live without him by his side any longer.

_Protect Jaskier._ His beast growls and it makes it out of his throat, alerting the two other wolves that he’s ready to fight. _Protect our mate,_ the beast snarls and the shift begins. It’s painful even after so many years, shedding skin and breaking bones, ripping it all the gore off his fur is never easy. His face lengthens into a maw and his limbs stretch out as white fur covers them. It’s been a while since he’d been out fully and under the full moon especially. It feels like stretching out after a night of sleeping on the ground. It feel like finally allowing a part of himself to be free of the military’s reins.

He takes a step forward, shoulders tensed and maw open in a wild snarl as the two other wolves complete their shifts. He can tell that he’s larger than them both but the smaller one looks limber and like he could be a problem while the old man’s shift is greying and drooling like it’s rabid.

The smaller wolf attacks first. Rushing forth on all fours before launching himself at Geralt’s standing form. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to throw him off, the superior strength coming in handy when the wolf tries to latch onto his arm. The old man follows closely behind, opting to try and knock Geralt down with a tackle. He digs his feet in and pushes into the tackle, gripping the other’s torso and lifting it up and then taking them both down with the other’s back hitting the uneven ground first. The old man yowls in pain and Geralt barely has enough time to turn onto all fours before the smaller latches onto his back.

He reaches around hurriedly, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s outnumbered, and sinks his claws into the soft sides of the wolf’s body. The wolf whines, motivating the older one to spring into another attack in order to defend his kin. He releases the smaller wolf in order to grip him from over his shoulder, pulling and tearing the other wolf’s claws from his skin, he throws him into the oncoming older wolf.

His back is most likely shredded, the flesh already trying to knit itself together. The enemies don’t stop coming. The older wolf nudges the younger one in a reprimand as they gather themselves across from him. He realizes that the smaller is missing an eye.

They re-double their efforts. Coming at him faster and craftier than before. One after the other until he’s breathing heavily from the exertion. Until he can’t think straight and can’t defend himself properly. The sound of them tumbling and crashing against rocks and dead trees covers the sound of footsteps approaching and Geralt doesn’t realize until the smaller wolf has taken out a great big chunk of flesh out of his arm and Jaskier _screams._

_“_ Geralt!!” The man - human, fragile, _mate,_ his primal brain supplies – screeches, drawing the attention of _all_ of the wolves to himself.

The old wolf starts towards Jaskier and Geralt sees _red._ But he can’t shake the smaller one off and the teeth just dig in deeper into his left bicep and Jaskier’s breathing stutters before there’s a cry of pain that pierces the air.

Geralt reacts before he’s aware of it. His other clawed hand grips the top of the younger wolf’s maw, digging into his own flesh as he secures the hold. He wrenches it back, snapping it clean off and setting blood spraying all over them both. The wolf wails, stumbling back but Geralt doesn’t let him get far. He pushes the young wolf to the ground and dives of his throat, biting through it with gusto as the old wolf watches with Jaskier’s prone form at his back. The young wolf doesn’t even get to howl as he gurgles and dies at his feet.

The older one, however, raises its head towards the moon and howls loud enough for the younger one.

Geralt stalks forward as the older wolf starts coming at him again, no doubt angry about his loss but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think – he _can’t think_ past Jaskier with his stomach ripped open and dying slowly while he wastes time.

The older wolf jumps at him with his arms outstretched but Geralt jumps forward as well, one hand making contact with the wolf’s abdomen and the other clenched around his throat. The one that’s missing flesh and muscle is weakened but it can still dig into the soft gut of his opponent. He growls, teeth bared as he slams the wolf onto the ground. He pours all of his anger, his sadness and his retribution into opening his mouth wide and over the other’s maw. He closes his teeth over the other’s head, snapping them shut and crushing his skull with the power of his jaw. The old man’s body slips from his grip, dead.

He rears back, howling his victory to anyone who can hear.

“Geralt.” The voice, that voice, his songbird’s voice.

He shudders, tail dropping down to hang between his legs as he slinks over to where Jaskier is.

“My, look at you.” The Corporal coughs. “What a magnificent beast. Even if you stink like wet dog.” Even in his death Jaskier smiles at him brightly.

He whines, nudging the other’s limp arm with his nose, pressing his snout into his pulse point before doing the same at the crook of his neck. If he were human he’d be crying.

“Oh, what a sight to behold. I’m glad you won, Geralt.” Jaskier splutters, blood dribbling out of his mouth crimson and stinking of copper. “I’m sorry – I know you said. You told Sergeant Triss to keep me back but. I had to know if you were okay.”

He whines longer, high-pitched and sorrowful at the sight before him. It’s almost familiar, it’s almost like he’s looking at himself lying half-dead on the French forest floor with a great beast looming over him.

_Oh._

He looks up at the moon and then down at Jaskier. It’s selfish. It’s stupid. And more importantly, Jaskier might not even want it. But Geralt needs him. He needs this stupid, ridiculous man like he’s never needed anyone before not in all of his years.

“Geralt, I need to – before I go-”

He doesn’t let him finish. He clamps his maw across the expanse of the other’s left trapezius and Jaskier releases a final scream before he passes out from the pain. He watches in anticipation as the man’s wounds begin to knit back together. He presses his nose against the healing flesh and licks it clean of the blood.

Ever so gently, he lifts the man into his arms and begins the walk back through the pass. He’s glad to find that they’d only stacked landmines at the entrance and not actually blown the thing up. He jumps over the line of them and onto the other side. His eyes take in everyone and everyone seems to take his shifted form in turn. He meets eyes with Triss and bares his teeth at her. She flinches back, looking away in shame.

He doesn’t stick around the temporary camp and instead walks himself and Jaskier back to base. The transformation is painful and Jaskier will want to be surrounded by a familiar scent when it takes hold of him. But he doesn’t plan on sticking around there either. He plans on picking up his things and _leaving_ , once and for all. Fuck the military, fuck being a civilian. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need any of this aside from Jaskier.

“Holy shit!” Someone shouts from the post by the gates of the base and he hears guns being trained on him.

“Is that Rivia?!” Someone else calls, alarmed. “Go get the Captain!”

“Let him in,” Mousesack, already at the wall, waves at the soldiers guarding the entrance to the base and they open the doors hurriedly.

He lets the shift drop as he walks, shedding the fur and letting his bones turn back to their original shape until he’s naked and carrying Jaskier across the grounds into his own tent in a bridal carry.

Nobody breathes a word as Geralt packs his duffle and carries Jaskier back out of safe haven that is the base.

“Take care, Geralt.” Mousesack murmurs underneath his breath and Geralt pauses briefly before nodding and continuing with his task.

* * *

Jaskier gasps awake on the third night, the previous two days and nights having been spent with him sweating profusely and screaming his throat raw.

Geralt is next to him in a matter of seconds, guiding a canteen of water to his lips and watching as Jaskier gulps it down greedily. He observes as the man’s eyes flutter open – blue but ringed golden close to the iris, beautiful and unique just like the newly-awoken wolf himself.

“Hey,” Jaskier croaks, coughing a little and Geralt pats his back gently. “ _Shit!”_ Jaskier blinks rapidly and then winces at the volume of his own voice. “Geralt – what?”

“I’m sorry.” He lowers his gaze, hunching in on himself. “You were dying and I didn’t – I wasn’t fast enough – you were dying and I didn’t want you to die because of me. I didn’t want you to die. At all. I couldn’t...” He trails off, hoping that Jaskier would understand.

The other reaches up and touches the tender spot of the bite that spans a good deal of his left side. “You – am I?”

“Yes.” He grinds out, biting his lower lip. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you die. I – we’re a fair bit away from base but if you want to go back, you can. I don’t – I’m not going back. Not after that.” He admits, feeling how his chest pulsates at the memory of Jaskier’s fading pulse.

Jaskier looks straight at where his heart is, seemingly fascinated. “I can – I can hear it. I can hear and see better than – is this what it’s always like for you? How have you lived with me screeching into your ear for months, Geralt?!” Jaskier winces again, still not used to regulating his tone.

“I don’t – I don’t mind it. It sounds nice.” He grunts, refusing to let his cheeks blush as Jaskier tilts his head to the side.

“You saved my life.” Jaskier declares suddenly and Geralt growls.

“No. What I did was curse you to a life of suffering just because I was – because I was selfish and I couldn’t let you go.” He slams a fist against the ground, cracking both his knuckles and the crusted dirt below.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands take his face in between their soft palms. The other wolf turns him to face himself and Geralt fights the urge to avoid his eyes. “Geralt you saved my life. I wasn’t – I wasn’t ready to go. And for that I am thankful. I was stupid enough to go against your warnings and I got what I had coming to me. It’s only by your intervention that I’m here and now. With you.”

“Do you want to go back?” He breathes out. “To the military?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lower, face hardening into a frown. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Come with me.” He hurriedly responds, awkwardly, as if he were a newborn pup, turning his body and bumping his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Come with me to – I don’t even fucking care. A forest somewhere, a mountain range, anywhere you want.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s eyes widen before his nostrils flare and a rumble sounds from his chest. “Geralt, darling.”

“Please.” He pleads, nudging his nose against the other’s cheek tenderly. “I don’t – I don’t want to do this without you.”

“Fuck, you’re so dense.” Jaskier chuckles. “Of course I’ll come with you. Out of all the things you’d ask me to do, this is one of the easiest ones. I’d follow you anywhere, you big idiot.”

“You – you’re a little shit, you know that?” He growls, playfully nipping at the other’s jaw.

Jaskier shudders and directs his head until they’re breathing the same air, mouths parted. “I know. But you love me anyway.”

“I do.” He surges forward, connecting their lips together in a passionate kiss that turns slightly bloody as Jaskier breaks his lower lip on one of his newly-acquired sharp teeth.

Geralt grunts, “No blowjobs for me until you get used to those, I guess.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier whines.

“Didn’t say anything about you, though.” He grins wolfishly as the man’s cheeks heat.

“Now that – that sounds like a great idea.” Jaskier purrs trailing a hand down his bare chest.

“I’m full of those. One of my recently brightest moments was letting you in.” He gazes upon the other tenderly, loving the way Jaskier melts into his hold.

“You’re a big sap.” The other decides and Geralt doesn’t let him continue, opting instead to kiss him senseless.

And really, there never was a brighter future ahead of him than the one in his arms currently. So Geralt will take great care of it, cherish it and grow it into something that he can look forward to with every new morning and every new breath of fresh air that smells like lindens and daisies. And he'll love it always. 

**Author's Note:**

> And as always find me on tumblr and twt @marionettefthjm  
> Lmao also the title is from that Tumblr posts that is like a werewolf poem on a fridge w magnets  
> Moon drunk creature  
> Beautiful and strange  
> Howl your melancholy question  
> And tell me  
> Which you dread more  
> The echo or the answer  
> [now with art on tumblr](https://marionettefthjm.tumblr.com/post/190866165995/wish-i-were-better-at-drawing-hands-anyway-a)


End file.
